Off the Clock
by BrokenSolitude
Summary: Charles Foster Ofdensen has a meeting outside Mordhaus, and Dethklok is in a partying mood... One shot.


**Off the Clock**

**A/N: **Okay, short story idea I got from re-watching one of the Metalocalypse extras...if you know them, you should figure out which one by the time this is done. I was going to wait until I had finished "Risk Factor" before I posted this, but I had another idea for yet another fic and I wanted to toss this one-shot out before I developed it any further. If you guys like this and want the fic (which, I might add, is almost entirely Charles-centric and doesn't include a whole lot of Dethklok whatsoever) I'll begin it as soon as Risk Factor is completed. Until then, this is what you get. I suggest listening to some classic rock when you read this. Especially Eric Clapton. Again, you'll see why. Enjoy!

* * *

The upper floors of the giant Viking ship were silent, almost eerie as the entire conglomeration that was Dethklok went looking for their manager. Usually it was he who found them, but he hadn't come to check up on them that night, and as they had worked themselves into a peculiarly content mood, they wanted him to come along with them on a venture outside their reinforced walls.

Nathan, the fastest walking of the five, reached Charles' office door first, and threw it open without any thought as to what or who might be inside. But he was met only with a startled glance as Charles pulled on his overcoat and wound his favorite red scarf around his neck.

"Hello, Nathan. Something I can, ah, do for you?" Charles shrugged his shoulders, adjusting to the stuffy weight of the coat while inside, where the heat poured out of the vents.

The frontman blinked, taken aback. He'd expected Charles to just be sitting at his desk, not preparing to go somewhere.

"Ofdensen…where are you going?" He grumbled. Charles stepped past him into the hallway, the chandelier darkening when he flipped the wall switch.

"I have a meeting. How's it goin', guys?" He addressed the rest of the band gathered in the corridor. Pickles groaned.

"Naht another one! That's the third time this week, dood!" Murmurs of agreement shot up from the group. Charles began the walk to the elevator, Dethklok following behind him like disappointed ducklings.

"Well, I'm very busy after that last _incident_ in Germany." He made it a point to glare at Murderface, who took the hint and crossed his arms, muttering to himself.

"Aw, c'mon, chief, can'tcha just cancel this one time?" The drummer wheedled, tugging on Charles' sleeve as he stepped into the elevator.

"Why? What did you need?"

"We's ams goings out and wanteds yous to come!" Toki blurted, stepping on Skwisgaar's foot and earning himself a thwack to the back of the head.

"Sorry guys. I, ah, can't this time. Maybe tomorrow."

And before they could get another word in, Charles was gone, leaving the five of them to wonder who they would get drunk for fun this time.

* * *

In the car, Charles breathed in slowly, his hands trembling a bit at the thought of what was to come. Nervous seemed almost like an understatement, and he cringed.

"What am I doing here?" He mumbled to the air around him as the car finally stopped outside the seedy establishment. Neon lights and streetlamps bathed the area in a rainbow array of colors, and the car pulled through them and around the back of the bar.

Charles stepped out of the backseat, a heavy carryon in tow. He climbed the steps to the back door and nodded at the three people who stood on the landing smoking in silence, the formality of handshakes forgotten.

"'Sup, Charlie?" A heavy-set man called out, bumping fists with the surprisingly unreserved manager. He was offered a smoke, and took it gratefully, a skinny blond man lighting up the end of the cigarette for him. He looked into the glazed green eyes of said man, taking in his dead hair and gaunt features, a part of him wondering just how he'd ended up keeping such company on occasions like these. But he pushed it to the back of his mind, having known these men for years.

"Nothin' much, Sleaze. I'm not late, am I?" The man called Sleaze- whose full moniker was Big Sleaze, his real name being Dave Giulliano- chuckled, a deep, bellowing noise. His waterfall of unruly black curls shook with the noise, and the third man, an African-American sporting an afro with streaks of gray through it, clapped Charles on the shoulder.

"A'course not, man. The party starts when we walk in, babe."

* * *

Dethklok called roughly for another round of beers to their table. It was the third of the night, and they were just getting started. Pickles leaned back and belched, draping his wiry arms over the back of the wrap around seats, the abused red leather sticking to his skin and making an unpleasant squeaking sound.

The booth they were seated at had an almost unobstructed view of the stage at the other end of the room, but was still far enough away to be in the shadows. Smoke from all the cigarettes in the room billowed visibly under the bright white and purple spotlights that were coming up to temperature. A few people milled about on stage, setting up a drum kit and moving two sets of microphones onto the platform. Dethklok was only mildly interested in what was going on in that direction, however, because at the bar a drunken woman was trying to strip for the impassive bartender, and it was a far better show at the time.

After removing her top, the woman tired of trying to hit on the employee, and left the bar. Skwisgaar took a bite of his nachos, rolling his eyes.

"Damn. I's wish de robots was here. We coulds get him drunks and makes fun of him."

Nathan nodded, as a crowd gathered at the stage. A couple mic checks were done, and then the bar's resident DJ mounted the stage.

"Allllright, folks, how ya'll doin' tonight?" The crowd cheered, and Dethklok bellowed "fuckin' brutal" as loud as possible, though not in unison. The DJ tipped his fedora back on his forehead, getting a better look under the dim house lights and blue glow from the bar's recessed cabinet lights.

"Haha, alright. Sweet. Tonight we've got some jammin' live music goin' down for all a' ya'll's expressly scintillating enjoyment, so please welcome some old friends of mine. Give it up for Hemp and Heroin!"

The gathering at the foot of the stage went wild as the DJ bounded off the platform, but Dethklok turned their attention back to the joke texts they were sending one another while they downed their drinks. Skwisgaar returned to staking out potential women he'd want to fool around with, and Nathan and Murderface started arm wrestling, while Toki cheered them both on, undecided as to who he wanted to win. Pickles tipped his head back, enjoying the atmosphere and the pleasant buzz he was getting from the drugs he'd taken before they arrived.

The tell-tale _pop _and crackle of a guitar being plugged in and overdriven reached the redhead's ears, and he squinted at the stage. His vision was sort of hazy, and there was too much smoke to really get a good look at the act. A voice he thought he might have recognized shyly mumbled something along the lines of "we're gonna do a couple cover songs to get you started," and then the drummer smacked his sticks together four times, counting out the beat and setting the pace for the rest of the band.

They all felt their ears pop when the bar's patrons threw up their hallelujahs as the oh-so-familiar strains of Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" (Cream's version) poured through the house PA system. Pickles was a closet fan of classic rock, and happily swayed to the beat.

The middle-aged waitress approached them with their fourth round of beers as the intro started to wax into the verse, and noticed Pickles' reaction to the music. She smiled, passing out the bottles.

"You like 'em?" She asked the redhead. He nodded.

"You're lucky you came tonight, then. Hemp and Heroin hasn't played together in over a decade. But it seems like time has only made them better."

Again, there was that familiar voice as the singing started.

"_I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.  
Down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.  
Asked the Lord above for mercy, 'Save me if you please.'"_

Pickles was almost _positive_ now that he knew the lead singer, but then again, he couldn't place it. Admittedly the singer sounded like Clapton, with a slightly higher, almost more nasal voice. He also stressed certain words, causing his voice to break like a true blues-rock aficionado. He narrowed his eyes at the stage, lifting his head to see over the top of Nathan's. He could see the burly drummer, the lanky blond bass player, and the rhythm guitarist. The lead guitarist also toted vocal duties, but he was so into the music he kept tipping his head back, obscuring his face.

"_I went down to the crossroads, tried to flag a ride.  
Down to the crossroads, tried to flag a ride.  
Nobody seemed to know me, everybody passed me by."_

Pickles thought he was going to bore holes through the disheveled man with his concentrated gaze. The man was pale, with short chestnut hair. He wore a white dress shirt that was open halfway down the front and the sleeves were rolled up. He wore simple slacks. Pickles couldn't see his shoes.

"_Well I'm going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.  
Going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.  
You can still barrelhouse, baby, on the riverside."_

The drugs in the drummer's system prevented him from really being able to focus on the facts at hand. Instead the blistering solo, an improvisation over Eric Clapton's style, took him on a crazy ride. To be fair, at this point, the cover was nothing like Cream's version. It was heavier, more distorted, and the drummer used a different combination of snare and hi-hat than the original song. The perfectly executed pinch harmonic hammer-on combination caught the Swede's attention.

"Hey, dat guy's pretty good." He offered, craning his neck to see the stage and then backing off when he couldn't. Around him, the other members of Dethklok seemed to be enjoying the song.

Pickles gave up. He tipped his head back again and just caught glimpses of the mysterious man as they came. Lifting his beer bottle to his lips, he took a swig, keeping one eye on the stage.

And then he caught an eyeful of the '59 Les Paul standard Heritage Cherry Sunburst flametop that he knew so well, and couldn't stop himself from spitting the alcohol out all over the table in his revelation.

"The fuck, Pickles?" Nathan growled, coating in his drummer's spit and liquor. Pickles coughed, choking.

"Dood! That's Ofdensen! It's Charles!" He sputtered, his eyes bugging out.

They all looked. Indeed, the red tie draped around his neck confirmed Pickles' hard-won discernment. Stunned, Dethklok jumped from their seats and moved toward the amoeba-like crowd.

What they found there surprised them. From their place at the booth, the crowd had looked sedate, but closer up, it was a madhouse. Charles breezed into another flawless solo, his fingers flying over the fretboard of his beloved guitar with practiced ease. Toki and Skwisgaar watched his hands, and their jaws dropped simultaneously.

The rest of Dethklok took in the scene at the front of the stage. Herds of screaming women reached out to Charles, who just kept on playing. A couple of bras were tossed up on stage, and a trio of blond cowgirls lifted their tank tops to reveal their breasts to the men on stage. Charles looked over his glasses at them and grinned wolfishly. A couple guys hauled their girlfriends up on their shoulders, and just about everyone was moving to the beat.

With a self-righteous smirk, the CFO approached the mic once again, really giving it his all.

"_Going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.  
Going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.  
You can still barrelhouse, baby, on the riverside._

"_You can run, you can run, tell my friend-boy, Willie Brown.  
Run, you can run, tell my friend-boy, Willie Brown.  
And I'm staying at the crossroads, believe I'm sinking down."_

Hemp and Heroin came together into a raucously brilliant outro, and then a final chord played them out completely. The crowd went ballistic, screaming and jumping up and down. Charles ran a hand through his hair, and locks of it fell into his face. He looked years younger. With his other hand he let go of the neck of the guitar and grabbed the mic.

"Thank you." He panted, catching his breath. Again, the crowd raised hell.

"Alright, alright." The blond bassist waved his hands at the people below him, trying to settle them down.

"We'd, ah, like to thank you all for coming tonight. It means a lot that you still remember us from, ah, back in the day. We don't know if we're gonna keep this up, or for how long, but you've helped us make tonight special. So we'll take some requests right now. Anybody, ah, got a song they wanna hear?"

Immediately names flew at them. Dethklok made out a few they recognized, but a lot seemed to be Hemp and Heroin originals. A few people requested more Cream or Clapton, but Charles shook his head at all of them.

"Come on, guys. Something fun."

And then he froze, the sweat on his forehead glistening under the spotlight like pieces of broken glass. His green eyes scanned the back of the room, and then he found what he was looking for.

"What, you can't hear me? I said, play some Dethklok!" Nathan repeated, smirking at his manager.

Charles' flabbergasted expression he expected. But what he did not expect was the crowd's reaction. They moaned and rolled their eyes. Some shook their heads, others had the audacity to vocalize their negativity. Murderface raised an eyebrow.

"What'sch their problem?" He muttered. A woman standing close to him overheard and sized him up, obviously not recognizing any of them.

"Puh-leaze. Hemp and Heroin was gonna be huge. Dethklok's the reason this is their first gig in forever, and maybe their last."

"Dood, why'd w-ah, Dethklok ruin their band?" Pickles chimed in, almost announcing their presence. The woman snorted.

"I don't know, hun. All I know is that Big Sleaze, Bulldog, and Cocaine Shane were down on their luck, and none of 'em were makin' money. Smooth Charlie was the only one who had a college education, so he went to work for Dethklok or somethin'. Haven't heard from him since, though the others have been in bands over the years. We figured he was dead."

Guilt wasn't usually a feeling any of the members of the death metal band experienced, but they all felt it then. But then Murderface snickered.

"Schmooth Charlie?"

* * *

Charles had blatantly ignored Nathan's heckling from the crowd and had taken a request for Motley Crue's "Shout at the Devil," leaving the focus of his day job slightly hurt. Nathan watched Charles with a hawk's eye, envious of the voice he'd been keeping under wraps for years. Pickles was drunkenly dancing with the same woman who had given them Charles' background with Hemp and Heroin, and in the middle of the song, leaned over to Nathan.

"He's really good, huh?" The redhead grinned as the woman started grinding with him. Nathan blinked.

"Uh…yeah. But the song choice…I don't know. I feel slightly offended." He winced, surprised at how sedate the lyrics were compared to what he'd wanted to hear.

Pickles shrugged and turned his attention back to his charged-up dance partner, enjoying a blast from his past.

Hemp and Heroin continued on their musical journey with a couple more covers, namely AC/DC's "Hell's Bells," Ozzy Osbourne's "Party with the Animals" (Big Sleaze's deep vocals from behind the drums rattled the entire bar and shook the glasses so roughly the bartender hung on to as many as he could with only two hands), and, surprisingly enough, Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend," but arranged to be much more heavy than the original track, and without the synth, it was a real headbanger. Charles asked a bar patron for a bottle of water, and he got him one as fast as possible. Grateful, Dethklok's manager mumbled his thanks into the mic, and took a sip. Ignoring his band in the audience, he set the bottle down by his mic stand and proceeded to tell the audience they were going to try some originals, but that it had been a while, so to bear with them while they gave it their best shot.

Dethklok's interest was piqued. So Charles wrote music? Considering the fact that he did everything else and knew how to make a band truly huge, they conceded it wasn't that hard to imagine.

Charles' discomfort at having his job and his hobby coincide had melted away, and truth be told he'd forgotten Dethklok was in the audience. Now it was his turn to shine, instead of them. He began a slow, sly riff that wormed in and out of pentatonic scales. Toki and Skwisgaar quietly bickered about who the better guitarist was- the Norwegian or his manager. The riff suddenly picked up speed, and led into a bouncy, crunchy into that was dance worthy.

The CFO temporarily left guitar duties to his bandmate Bulldog to raise his hands in the air and goad the audience into clapping. He chuckled darkly into the microphone, looking ever more like the rock star he'd wanted to be so many years before, but instead ended up working for five of them. The purple stage lights glinted off his glasses, and he was blinded to the audience momentarily.

"This song's called 'Reason for Treason'," he announced, his hands poised to play.

Sleaze hit the crash four times, and Hemp and Heroin exploded into their original song. Again, Dethklok felt stunned. Covers were one thing. Someone else had the chops to write them- all Charles had to do was play them. But here was something completely of his own creation. His wickedly controlled guitar playing was a cross between heavy metal and a bluesy twang, and Dethklok could sort of hear their own influence in his matured style. Skwisgaar marveled at Charles' tonal control. And then the words came.

"_Got myself into this mess_

_That I've been callin' a life_

_It's the plainest heinous job that's ever been._

_Got my troubles, got my pain_

_Got the call now yet again_

_Got to get them out from under my skin._

_Well now, life's a vicious cycle,_

_A corporate innuendo, _

_And everybody's doin' the horizontal Wall street mambo._

_Yeah, I'm stil livin' for the dream that I was given_

_But it ain't for me that I go to the lengths that I've been driven._

_Empty your hypocrisy _

_And idiosyncrasies_

_Dump em' on my desk _

_And you can figure out the rest._

_Some day I might not be around_

_For you to beat me to the ground_

_But I'll give you every reason_

_All my reasons for treason._

_Dancin' and prancin' _

_and good time romancin'_

_Get myself a little taste of fame._

_Always plus one,_

_Never undone,_

_I'm the glue that keeps them clinging to their name._

_Well now, Death's a careful master,_

_Even headed for disaster_

_She's always got a handle on the biggest benefactors_

_I can run, I can hide, but she'll find me every time_

_And drag me back to Hell as though breathin' is a crime._

_Empty your hypocrisy _

_And idiosyncrasies_

_Dump em' on my desk _

_And you can figure out the rest._

_Some day I might not be around_

_For you to beat me to the ground_

_But I'll give you every reason_

_All my reasons for treason._

_Yea-ah, time is of the essence,_

_When their ain't no convalescence,_

_And nothin's as it should be when the players start world war three._

_Well I gave up my plans to be a glorified stagehand_

_And if all the world's a stage, then we're just actors in remand._

_Empty your hypocrisy _

_And idiosyncrasies_

_Dump em' on my desk _

_And you can figure out the rest._

_Some day I might not be around_

_For you to beat me to the ground_

_But I'll give you every reason_

_All my reasons for treason._

_But I'll give you all my reasons,_

_Every reason for treason._

"_I said I'll give you every reason_

_My goddamn reasons for treason."_

About halfway through the song was when the entirety of Dethklok began to come to the hollow realization that Charles' song was about them. It left them feeling used, the idea that that was how he felt all the time never occurring to any of them. They were still the biggest band in existence (again, the notion that Charles had made them that way did not cross their collective minds), and Hemp and Heroin had a tiny cult following, if that. They were nothing. Washed up. Forgotten by time.

But all five death metal musicians had to admit, Charles' music was more thoughtful than theirs, and just as well executed between the two different styles.

Hemp and Heroin played another five songs- four of which were originals. It was easy to tell which were new songs and which were old, even without Charles giving a play-by-play before each number. The older songs were angry, but more about relationships gone sour or having to get a normal job. Rock n' roll's standby topics. These were the songs the crowd sang along to, word for word, making Charles smile through his lyrics, more than Dethklok had ever seen him smile (even when they got him affectionately wasted). But the new songs were darker, more sinister- a direct influence of time spent around Dethklok. Their outro for the evening was a crowd favorite- a rendition of Quiet Riot's "Bang your Head (Metal Health)." When it was over, even Murderface was clapping, impressed. Charles wiped his brow and turned down the volume knob on his guitar while expressing his thanks to his audience once again, before dismounting the stage with the rest of the band.

He knew they were going to approach him right off, so he booked it into the bar's tuning room and sat down with his guitar across his lap, wiping the sweat from his 'baby' with a soft cloth. He was reaching for the string cleaner when Shane opened the door.

"Got your boys here, Smooth. Heads up, they don't look happy." The blond announced, two beer cans in hand. He tossed one to Charles, who caught it with little more than an upwards glance.

"Send 'em in." And then as an afterthought: "Sounded, ah, ace tonight, Shane. I'll, ah, be out in a few." Shane laughed.

"Man, you ever gonna kick that stutter? You don't have it when you sing." It was Charles' turn to laugh.

"No, I, ah, guess not." He reflected, reminded of Nathan.

And then Shane was gone, replaced by the hulking form of the inky-haired frontman. Charles looked up at him over the rim of his glasses, continuing to gently clean his strings. Four other heads peered over and around the vocalist, and the CFO sighed.

"I didn't, ah, think you boys would be interested in this sort of thing, so I didn't tell you."

"Bullshit. You _should_ have told us, Ofdensen."

Charles was expecting a fit of rage as he knelt down to place his precious instrument in its hardshell case, but no such tantrum erupted.

"You're right. I'm sorry. It's great that you were, ah, here, though." He murmured.

"Isch thisch what you do when you schay you're going to a meeting?" The manager shrugged.

"Sometimes."

"Shince when?" Murderface indignantly demanded an answer, like an over-worried mother who wanted to get to the bottom of their child's bad behavior.

"Since…since I died." There was no fear in his simple statement.

The members of Dethklok didn't know what to say. The robot wasn't being a robot. He was unwinding from a wondrous performance, and they were faced with a sober Charles being particularly less stubborn about enforcing his actions than usual. How could they attack him verbally in the face of such collectedness? Silent, all five members turned away, fighting through the throngs of people who wanted to get Charles' autograph, for once, instead of theirs. Right before he disappeared from sight, though, Toki turned around and smiled at Charles.

"Great jobs tonight!" He exclaimed, and then quickly followed his Scandinavian counterpart into the night.

* * *

Charles sat at his desk, about to make a phone call to the German embassy about clearing up Murderface's little problem, when he paused, his finger on the first button. He could hear familiar footsteps clunking down the hall over the slight ringing in his ears.

Sure enough, Dethklok invited themselves into his office without asking for entrance. They looked around. Not a thing seemed out of place. Nothing was different from any other day. Sleaze, Bulldog, and Cocaine Shane were long gone, the effects of the after-party having worn off the CFO hard at work. He looked perfectly normal. Just like he always did. Crisp, expensive suit. Italian leather shoes. Tightly knotted tie. Slicked back hair. How Charles Foster Ofdensen, Chief Financial Officer to Dethklok could be the man known as Smooth Charlie of Hemp and Heroin, they couldn't fathom.

It was a silent staring contest. Charles didn't greet them cordially; Dethklok didn't want to be greeted. He had betrayed their trust, he had written songs about them, he had snuck out from under their noses and done something they desperately wanted to know about, and here he was, working like the night before had never happened.

Dethklok, too, had done some thinking in the wee hours of the morning, and had brought their thoughts up to each other over breakfast. Charles was a brilliant musician. So was the rest of Hemp and Heroin. A little more time, and they could have been a household name. Charles could have gotten a different job to pass the time. But it had finally dawned on all five members of Dethklok that he had given up his own dreams to further theirs, and had done so by sacrificing his life, his dreams, his blood, sweat, and tears. And he did it all because he _wanted_ to.

It was truly the most brutal thing anything had ever done for them.

Another moment passed. Charles was growing tired of playing this game, and quirked an eyebrow at them.

"So…do you want to come jam with us?"

They waited. Charles took his finger off the button and hung up the phone. He looked down at his work, checked his watch.

And then he smiled.


End file.
